Halloween Came Too Soon

Everything is F.cked . The story about Hope. 3

<What happened this time, some jerk boy’s joke? We are almost at Halloween, there are many idiots around…> The inspector is in a bad mood. He is on the site of a demolition, the building that once stood there has disappeared and only the base remains, with the access door closed with nailed boards. The week of Halloween is always a source of stress for his ulcer, there is always someone who exaggerates, and this does not plan to be better than the rest. <Hm> sighs <Let’s go down> he tells the others.

The ladders are wobbly, probably due to rain and demolition, and a thin veil of water covers them. He feels a sudden chill envelop him, and the sound of footsteps on the concrete is strange … it’s like the wind passing through the openings of a door, a whisper or a sigh in his ear. They are there because the workers working on the demolition site have reported screams coming from below, and they are there to investigate, but it will surely be some nonsense, like a crate attached somewhere, he has seen too many in the last week …

With each plank that is torn up – and they don’t seem to have been there for a short time – the disturbing noise rises. They are no longer just whispers, they are crying and moaning, women, men and children who scream and cry. From moans they become sobs, and from sobs screams, real cries of despair, and they do not come only from a point of the door – as one would suppose if it were just a chest with recorded sounds – but they surround them as if they were around them, as if they were screaming their fury, their anger and their regrets into their ears. The commissioner begins to worry, he helps to tear off the last board, anxious to see what’s behind it. He has to get this horrible feeling off him, it’s starting to get suffocating.

<Open!> He yells, while with a kick he opens the door, gesturing to those behind him to be alert.

<Oh my God> For a moment in his mind there is silence, only the horrible screams can be heard that penetrate his thoughts, cut and disperse them in the fog. There is no author of those screams, only piles of skeletons scattered on the ground, without an order. Some are tied by the wrists, others are simply spread out and slumped. They are all dead, and for a long time, so it is absurd to believe that the screams are coming from there, but he is convinced of it, he hears them screaming in his head, screaming as if obsessed with help that can no longer come, the bony jaws open wide and toothless. The floor is damp, but it is not rain. The shoe sinks in and slips, and the liquid is dark, thick, the blade of light coming from the door gives its black a reddish tint. With horror, the inspector realizes that it is blood, and it is a flow, it is not stagnant. It comes from a second door, locked with boards, the blood dripping from the interstices without stopping.

He can’t do it, he must know what’s behind all this, he begins to tear the boards with his bare hands but behind there is only a gray reinforced concrete wall, the foundations of the next building. The blood literally oozes from the wall as from the stone skin of a statue of Christ in the wood of Gethsemane, it exudes the same suffering. It is monstrous.

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